The Dall:  Just Another Day at The Factory
by scattered21
Summary: Eric Northman leaves the U of Utah and his fiance far behind when he moves to NYC and snags a magazine cover assignment shooting Indie-film actors. He meets an intriguing, beautiful actor *not Bill* and his life is forever changed. SLASH, M, AU, AH.


Author: Scattered-21

Prompts: Poetry, Painful, Pleasure

Title: The Dall: Just Another Day at the Factory

_Author's Note:_ An Eric Northman period piece with decade-appropriate language not PC by today's standards. Mildly slashy. (boy-on-boy love) Mature lemons, AU, AH. Written with love for a special author's b-day last year. I've modified it a lot and plan to write another couple of chapters. Not posting it until now has contributed to my recent block. Maybe this action will aid the thawing.

Charlaine Harris conceived and owns Eric. No copyright infringement is intended.

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'You are the wave. And I the naked island.' _Je t'aime moi non plus_

_(see: youtube(dot)com/watch#!v=CzYgyRxQxYE&feature=related for the Video)_

**Chapter 1. "I am an Explorer"…..EPOV**

The Rolleiflex bumped against my chest, the rhythmic thumping the one constant in the sea of humanity through which I waded on this hot, humid day. I was on my way to the artist's studio known simply as 'The Plant.' Varholl himself had called me yesterday to ask me, Eric Northman, to shoot the cover for an upcoming issue of inner/Vue after L'avoden had unexpectedly cancelled.

The famous artist had been brusque on the phone, giving me just one day to find my subject among his Superstars and nail the image. If I couldn't deliver, he'd told me, he'd pass along the choice assignment to someone else. I guessed he was desperate for a Cover.

Understanding the serendipitous nature of the offer, I was very careful with my appearance this afternoon. I eventually decided to model my clothes on Varholl's own signature 'cadaver' look. It was a given that the jaded types who worked in Varholl's films, all denizens of the underground New York art scene, would reject me on very little provocation. And if they caught even a whiff of the conscientious U of Utah undergrad I'd been until the beginning of last year, the shoot and my career boost was a lost cause.

Landing today's job was a very sweet acknowledgment of my raised profile in the Big Apple. And aceing it with a magazine cover I could show my parents would temporarily silence their frequent entreaties I return to their home in Salt Lake.

I'd left the safety of the Beehive State after a nasty break-up with my fiancé, the details of which were etched forever in my psyche. Dropping out in my senior year and heading east to New York City, I was simply reversing what Horace Greeley had bade my forebears do. Lots of my cohorts had the same idea. We were a peripatetic generation.

In making the move to the East coast, I'd shed my religious upbringing as easily as I'd ceased wearing the sacred undergarments my former faith required I don every day of my life. This new and improved Eric was all about experimentation and exploration. Tall, athletic, with hair past my shoulders now, and a ready supply of money for drinks at Max's and other things, I was immediately welcomed into the lower echelons of the art world. I'd even found work as a staff photographer after a few months. It was an unexpected accomplishment that served to mollify the confusion and the anger directed at me by my family.

Unfortunately, even among my new acquaintances, there were many who suspected me of being just another pretty face pretending to own a talent. I soon proved them wrong; my work, both fresh and recognizable, began to be widely circulated. Pop Art was everywhere, and I was becoming accepted as part of the Scene. All of which suited me just fine; I dripped with ambition, just as my famous hotelier relatives had before me. The only difference between us was in how I had chosen to scratch my itch.

Said itch was blazing now as I stood silent and immobile on the sidewalk, inexplicably mesmerized by the non-descript building before me. There was nothing that distinguished it architecturally from any of its neighbors in the humid concrete canyon known as 16th Street. And, as befit film studio spaces, the windows on most floors were painted-over or draped in black-out material. Who knew the doors to Valhalla would prove to be double-hung, deeply dented, and covered in scratches? Even the formerly ornate brass handles were heavily damaged, bent and hanging at an odd angle. I reminded myself that similarly dilapidated structures were all too common in this part of Manhattan and proved nothing about the inhabitants.

Pushing an errant lock of hair behind my ear_, _I wondered about my next move. _Could one just walk in?_ Where were the cameras that supposedly taped all activity around The Plant?

I swallowed hard, finally nervous now about what I would find inside. Was I crazy to think I had even a remote chance of being accepted by Varholl's talented band of misfits?

Everyone in the Scene knew that a lot of homos hung out with Varholl. I planned to avoid them by focusing on finding the magazine's cover image among the female superstars. If either Vera or the impossibly beautiful blonde model Necca could be tempted, I'd shoot twenty or thirty rolls of both of them. Any rejected photographs could be sold to less picky publications if either woman would sign a release. I knew ex-debutante Emmy-S was long gone from Varholl's stable of actors, but thought there was still a chance I might run his elfin former muse inside, or at least find someone who knew how to contact her. Photos of her still pulled big money.

Just the slim prospect of finally meeting her was sufficient to boost my courage; I entered the building and climbed the six flights to the studio offices. Looking through the open door, I saw several empty couches lined up against the walls of the reception area, but the immediate area appeared deserted. Surprisingly, the phones were silent, too.

Guess Varholl's warning that the action didn't start until much later in the day had been correct. Over-eager achiever that I was, I had run true-to-form by arriving well before nightfall. I thought of other recent embarrassing examples of my achiever-mentality and chuckled. The old adage _'You can take the Mormon out of Utah, but…_' played in my head; maybe this cat would never be able to change his spots.

Calmer now that I appeared to have the place to myself, I felt a familiar rush at the thought of exploring the famed filmmaking studio on my own. I left the well-lit public space and began randomly moving down hallways that appealed. The back rooms showed signs of neglect. Most of the harsh fluorescent lights were burned out, and bags of trash were everywhere. I soon relaxed and began seriously checking out the empty studios. The building wasn't large, but The Plant had the entire floor; I wanted to experience all of it while I could.

I was looking at what I hoped would translate as interesting angles behind my subjects when the sound of someone clearing his throat startled me. I turned too quickly, stumbled, and crashed against a wall, smashing my hand as I tried to cushion the Rolleiflex. The clumsy movements and my recovery had made unexpectedly loud noises.

The man who'd found me was openly staring at me. I was focused on a spot over his shoulder.

"Exploring, huh." The questioner, probably no more than twenty, must have seen the camera and black bag holding the rolls of film because I could hear the smile in his voice. "I'm 'Zandro. For this week, at least. Are you here to get my photograph?" The voice had a high New York drawl, the words slightly slurred. He extended his hand in a universal gesture of goodwill, and I took it. I had time to notice the smaller man's hand was engulfed by my much larger one before I felt the energy that jumped between us.

Blinking in astonishment, I looked down into the face of a street-wise Adonis with a compact, but still perfect physique. His skin was clear and firm with a small mole on his cheek. The silky sun-kissed hair, worn long and twisted over his shoulder, framed expressive eyes an unusual shade of gray-blue. 'Zandro was dressed in a tight burgundy tank and jeans, his well-defined arms tanned and sporting a single black-inked tattoo of a man's name.

Gathering my thoughts, I introduced myself and explained my mission. I admitted to wanting to see more of the environment where I'd be spending the next twenty-four hours looking for that elusive cover image.

"You could shoot me. I've just starred in a couple of Manning's underground art flicks."

I squinted, but didn't recognize him from any of The Plant's stills I'd perused in the City Library's collection the previous evening. But the guy was both charismatic and a flaming androgynous beauty. I'd always had an eye for beautiful male faces, and this one met all my criteria.

"Okay," I said. "I'll set up for some test shots. I saw a room a few doors back with lights I could use …"

He cut in. "I know just where you mean, dude. Follow me." He paused and then said, "We are the only ones here, you know. Others won't begin filing in until after six."

I nodded, noticing he brushed against my arm and hip as he pushed past me in the narrow hall. It was distracting, but his comment had piqued my interest.

"Hey, 'Zandro, anyone else on site? Where is building security? I know it's early, but no receptionist? Doesn't seem right."

Looking slightly abashed, he explained he doubled as guard when Varholl needed extra help. The receptionist had called in sick, so he was 'watching the door.'

Wondering if I was wasting my time and my expensive film, I casually asked about the acting roles he'd claimed earlier.

"In one film, I play a cowboy." He hesitated, but continued after editing whatever he'd been about to say. "In another coming out next month that Pat is tentatively calling _Skin_, I'm a street hustler. In the preliminary critics' screenings here in New York, I've received glowing notices." The pride was evident in his voice.

I liked what that last remark said about him and felt a small, unexpected stirring of lust. He could easily be a real street hustler Varholl had found; he was both a compelling figure and a very young man. Did that mean 'Zandro was just another Plant homo? And why did I care if he was?

Almost slamming into him when he stopped without warning, I saw that 'Zandro had taken us to the room I wanted. I followed him inside and confirmed my earlier impression of how easily the lighting could be re-arranged for my first impromptu shoot of a Plant actor.

After setting up, I posed my compliant subject against the exposed wall column, a knee bent behind him, his silhouette framed by one of the many covered windows. I casually asked if he'd ever met Emmy-S.

"Yeah, we worked together." His accent thick, he smiled shyly at my interest. "She's a great gal. Rides the white horse, you know."

"Yeah, I heard." I paused. "You seem very natural. Have you worked as a model?"

"Lots of nudes out in California." It was his turn to pause. "Here as well, Eric."

Without asking, he stopped speaking and shrugged his tank over his shoulders, pitching it into a corner and out of the shot.

Whoa! The guy had the sort of pecs and abs usually seen on the younger bodybuilders. And his nipples were both small and perfect, a pale pink color that couldn't be natural, but it was. With effort, I tore my gaze away from his nipples only to get sucked into examining his sculpted chin and sensuous, pouty mouth, a faint shadow outlining the curve of his jaw.

'Zandro's lips pulled back into a genuine smile as he caught me staring at his visible assets. With difficulty, I quelled a strong urge to pinch the flesh around his nipples and bite the small buds that were standing at attention now.

My gaze dropped quite naturally to his crotch, and I watched in fascination as his interest twitched beneath the jeans. His hips were narrow and fluid, moving in time to some internal melody. Completely besotted now, I imagined the feel of his bare skin beneath that tight workman-like material. My eyes caressed his gleaming, hairless chest and the small russet-colored tufts in the hollows of the muscled arms he had stretched over his head. I had to restrain myself from drawing that curly reddish-gold treasure into my mouth and tugging until he pleaded with me to stop.

Thinking about touching him more intimately, and wondering if he felt the same about me, I leaned in again and disinterestedly adjusted his arms to better capture the lighting I'd arranged. I was dangerously close to his chest and allowed my breath to drift over the skin on his neck, observing the minute throb of his pulse in his throat.

"Eric," he offered in a voice both low and gentle, "Why don't I lose the jeans? I don't mind."

The ache in my cock flared in response, but I didn't let on.

"Yeah, that would make for a more interesting layout." We both ignored the obvious; nude shots on the cover of a magazine wouldn't attract the mainstream audience inner/Vue was trying to reach for its advertisers.

I stayed close as the Adonis unbuttoned and dropped his jeans to the concrete floor. He was wearing a pair of tight silk briefs, a deep crimson color. I had but seconds to notice that the briefs looked more like swim trunks before he hooked his thumbs beneath the waistband and pulled.

In a moment, he stood entirely nude. And he was perfection; smooth skin, large cock, and a dark nest of hair covering his groin. I had no time to think about the contrast between his coloring and my own golden shades before my hand slid into the curly hair and underneath his balls. I watched his smile until it disappeared from view as my lips eagerly covered his, my tongue darting into the lush opening I'd been coveting since I'd seen him standing guard over the Plant's meager furnishings.

'Zandro's face, his body, and cock standing rigidly upright, thick and straight, was erotic poetry of the finest sort. I wanted to devour it and him; maybe then I'd finally learn what _pleasure_ really meant.

As if he'd read my thoughts, I felt his arms tighten around my chest, as his hands traced slowly down my ribs to the tops of my cotton slacks. He stopped, letting me make the decision for him.

I hesitated. Although my cock was aching for his touch, I knew my first time could be painful. But 'Zandro had what I craved, what I was crazed for; he could finally answer all _my_ questions. Here, now, he'd freely give me what I'd finally admitted a few months ago I'd come to New York to find, but hadn't acted on.

I was about to fuck another man, a willing, beautiful man. I just had to find the nerve to say _'yes.'_

Moments passed as he waited for me. And breathing heavily, I gave in, barely nodding my assent as I closed my eyes and waited.

'Zandro didn't hesitate in his response. His hands resumed their lustful assault, sliding smoothly underneath the heavy cotton material of my slacks and gripping my ass. I groaned around his tongue at the rightness of the sensation. When a sexual experience is new, anything seems exciting. But this was different from being with my fiancé. I knew there would be pain in being with 'Zandro…even if eventually I would learn to enjoy it.

"Unclench for me, Eric." 'Zandro's voice was warm and reassuring. And though I was a bigger man than him, taller, with longer arms, I couldn't help but obey. His fingers began their own happy explorations as I willed myself to relax into the pleasure. I had to admit, it all felt very good.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

'Zandro had pulled away after the first few minutes of our coupling, insisting we retreat to The Plant's couches for our mutual comfort. I'd reluctantly let him go, feeling strangely empty as his legs slipped from around my waist to slide back down either side of my much longer limbs. Taking his hand this time, I followed him back to the reception area to help haul a red velvet couch smelling faintly of dog into a small private office. Naked, eager, we'd once again fallen on each other, 'Zandro wanting his pleasure first, and then it would be my turn.

Sucking cock was another new experience to add to my New York City achievements. His was long and thick and made a gorgeous arc as I bobbed my neck to place eager lips just around the meaty head. I tasted him; and he was delicious. 'Zandro was both salty and fresh, the scent of his clear liquid exotic and pleasing on my tongue. I sighed in relief, and continued by laving my tongue up and down the silky flesh of his dick.

He moaned his appreciation and carefully wound his fingers into the long strands of hair covering my face, twisting it back tightly as I maneuvered to kiss and caress more of his erection. Humming his gratitude, he began to slowly thrust his hips a little; I felt comfortable enough to part my lips, hollow my cheeks, and slowly swallow down his hard length. Knowing the signs of his orgasm, so like my own, I was able minutes later to pull off of him just before he would have shot his wad down my throat. Instead of swallowing, I directed his quick, intense spurts over my chin and neck. The warmth of his jizz on my body was intoxicating; it dissolved my fears and compelled me to act. I wanted him; all of him, his beauty and his masculinity.

The need for this other man was fierce now. I gave him a few moments to recover, holding him close against my chest and whispering against his neck my urgent instructions for how I wanted him, not that he required any. He was soon on all fours, knees spread for me, before I was quite ready, still wiping the smeared, white streams of his cum from my flushed skin. God, I wanted him, and I knew just where to plant my painfully hard erection. His puckered skin was tight; I felt guilty my saliva wasn't much lubrication, but 'Zandro didn't seem to mind. He ground his ass hard against my dick, and I responded with a deep bellow, pushing my cock through the tight ring of his flesh as he groaned _'fuck, Eric…god, that's so good…more, deeper…fuck_.' I was thrusting fast now, laying down a rhythm that suited us both. My growls and his huffing accompaniment and pleas for _'more…harder, Eric, harder'_ led to the inevitable. It was a mind-blowing orgasm; I'd never felt a man's ass clamp down on my cock. When he did so, I pressed deeply into him, thrusting fast, and felt my control be completely ripped away. The storm of release travelled over my body in waves of pleasure; my legs shook, and my stomach muscles convulsed in time to the cum pulsing from deep behind my balls.

When it was over, I fell away from him, collapsing down along the side of his exhausted body. We stayed that way for a while, neither of us moving. "Eric?" He questioned, turning his head towards me, and I turned towards him. We kissed, very pleased with one another, our entwined tongues lazily caressing and smoothing away any doubts. He was mine now.

Smiling, I realized I'd fucked my first man as easily as if I'd done it all my life; I felt sated in a way I'd never experienced with my ex-fiancé Amelia. All my questions had finally been answered, and the intensity of the answers had surprised even me.

It was Varholl himself who eventually found us, me on top with 'Zandro's crossed ankles resting against the small of my back. I wasn't planning on letting go of him just yet, and had locked my wrists beneath his shoulder blades in possessive embrace. I'd heard the other man approaching, but not knowing who it was, hadn't bothered to lift my head in greeting. I wasn't ready to give up the sensation of my face buried in the sweet smell of my new lover's neck.

Varholl's famous monotone didn't mask the smirk behind his greeting. "Welcome to my studio, Eric. Glad 'Zandro was able to get you inside. Looks like you'll _fit_ _in_ well here after all." I turned my head to meet his eyes and grinned, hoping his easy acceptance of us meant he'd be equally lax about my meeting the deadline for the magazine's cover shot.

Stretching, I made as if to move off 'Zandro, but in truth, I wanted a few more hours alone with him, or at least time to re-enact the vigorous fuck I'd given him and maybe have him try some new stuff on me. But I guessed the late hour, and Varholl's own arrival, signaled the imminent return of The Plant's folk; we'd likely either have to leave soon for my apartment or find a way to block the small office's door.

I rose up to meet Varholl's less-than-friendly smile. I was confused by it. _Did he want 'Zandro for himself?_

"And 'Zandro," Varholl continued, carefully watching my expression, "your wife called earlier. The baby's sick again. I promised Suki I'd pass along her message."

Mouth gone dry, I barely heard his next words.

"May I suggest you call her _before_ she comes looking for you?"

'Zandro gives me a calculating look and murmuring 'sorry, I'd better call her', he rises to dress and leave.

Looks like I have lots more to learn about this City and its inhabitants.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

'_A hustle here, and a hustle there…' copyright Lou Reed _

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A/N: Have I been reading too much Twi-slash? Probably; and this is tame by those benchmarks. I even wrote a few chapters of a new Jasper/Edward slash story, _Boyfriend Swapping,_ and posted it under my Twi-penname. (Check my profile if you are interested in it.) Thanks for reading.


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